Berkley for my passport, the certificate of my character, but likewise
for the revictualing of my purse. As I passed the small throne-room
of Francine, where she sat vis-à-vis with all her keys and bells, a
light, a presence, an amicable little nod informed me that a friend
was there for me, and sent a bath of warm and comfortable emotion all
over my poor old heart.

[Illustration: EFFUSION.]

It was late. Francine, at a little velvet account-book, was executing
some fairy-like and poetical arithmetic in purple ink. I had the
pleasure, before a half hour had passed, of making her commit more
than one error in her columns, do violet violence to the neatness of
her book, and adorn her thumb-nail with a comical tiny silhouette.
My gossip, which had this encouraging and proud effect, was commenced
easily upon familiar subjects, such as the old rose-garden and the
chickens, but branched imperceptibly into more personal confidences.
I found myself growing strangely confidential. Soon I had sketched for
Francine my life of opulent loneliness, my cook and my old valet, my
philosopher's den at Marly, my negligent existence at Paris, without
family, country or obligations.

Her good gray eyes were swimming with tears, I thought. With a look
of perfect natural sweetness she said, "To live alone and far from
kin and fatherland, that is not amusing. It is like one of the small
straight sticks of rose my father would take and plant in the sand in
a far-away little red pot."

A delicious vignette, I confess, began to be outlined in my fancy. I
cannot describe it, but I know Francine was in the middle repairing